Monday, January 26, 2009

Friday, January 23, 2009

Not long ago I answered an advertisement on Craigslist for a man seeking a woman. The ad was entitled "Must Love Porky's". Immediately I thought the man placing the add was referring to that movie, which is one of my all-time favorites. Finally, I thought to myself a man with a sense of humor. I started up a correspondence with this individual named Wilber. Over the next few days, I learned Wilber enjoyed reading Camus, fine Zinfandels, and moonlit walks on the beach. Hmmm... he didn’t mention anything about comedy. And what the hell is a Camus? Anyhoo, I began to wonder if I had construed this Porky’s reference all wrong and in fact, Wilber was a heifer. Maybe he’s one of those guys who weighs 600-pounds, can’t get out of bed and has to wash himself with a rag tied to a stick? I began to worry and finally felt relieved when I requested a photograph and saw that he wasn’t a blob. We forged ahead, and planned our first date. Wilber looked mildly handsome when we met at a local cafe. He too acted like a perfect gentlemen ordering me a glass of wine and standing up from his seat when I trotted off to the little girl's room. It was a fine first date albeit void of any jokes. Wilber told me he was a Certified Public Accountant and had recently divorced when he and his wife didn’t see eye-to-eye on what he expected in the bedroom. This immediately piqued my interest. Was this bespectacled CPA with a tattered suit an animal in the bedroom? A bit pervy? My imagination began to simmer. The following week, we arranged a second date. Wilber had purchased two tickets to a Dog Show at the LA Coliseum. Now in all honesty, I'm a cat person myself. I have two; Mr. Shackapopolis, a Calico with a skin disease and Vladimir, a Persian stray I found in my backyard. Wilber really seemed to enjoy the dog show and he even got a bit forward by asking me if I'd like to go back to his house afterwards. What the heck, I thought to myself and agreed. He popped in a CD of some smooth jazz, which really isn't my style but I'm not one to make a fuss about things. Well, before you know it, we were on the couch making-out. It got pretty ‘hot-and-heavy', as they say, and soon my panties were soon off and bunched up in a ball on the coffee table. Wilber was indeed an animal. He nuzzled my neck and lovingly pet my beaver. I grabbed the side of his face, turning his mouth towards me so I could plant a kiss on his lips when I saw something quite odd. Between his lips there was a thin, silver tube no larger than the filter of a cigarette. It was a dog whistle. Before I could say anything two little dogs started yelping from the other room and nearly knocked the door off it’s hinges as they burst in. “Here... poochie - poochie,” said Wilber. “Come and get it." Wilber? What’s going on? I asked. He didn’t answer and instead, reached over and grabbed my panties and twirled them under the snouts of the dogs. He flipped me over on and taunted the mangy mutts to mount me! Good God! I rolled back over and slapped him right across the face,. He swallowed the dog whistle and began to choke. In a panic I performed the Heimlich maneuver, which in turn must have given the dogs the wrong idea because they started to hump my leg. After Wilber spit out the whistle, I proceeded to gather my belongings. “But I thought you liked Porgies?” whimpered Wilber. Porgies? I said. “Yes, my dogs are Porgies.” I thought the ad said Porky’s. “No that was a misprint.” He answered. Well, needless to say, I didn’t see Wilber ever again and when I did respond to another ad on Craigslist entitled ‘Must Love Bagels’, I sure as hell made sure the bozo wasn’t talking about beagles.

Monday, January 19, 2009

I wish I could tell you this was a How To blog about the art of fellatio. I can't. Cocksucking 101 refers to the time I blew a centenarian. Again, I wish I could say a centenarian was a Roman gladiator of sorts but in fact, it’s a person who’s reached the age of one hundred. To be exact, Mr. Lumley was 101-years-old. I was a bit drunk even before I jumped out of the oversized birthday cake at the party, so when the champagne started flowing and his grandson offered me two hundred dollars to go down on him, I agreed. I thought the grandson, who was 32-yers-old and not half-bad looking was talking about himself. After a few more glasses of champagne, he led me into the Men’s room to perform the deed. “Go into the third stall,” said the grandson as he handed me the money. “There’s a Glory Hole there.” A Glory Hole is nothing more than a hole in the wall whereupon males would stick their tiddlywinks to be fellated. Okie Dokie, I thought to myself, he wants to be a bit kinky. I got down on my knees and waited for a few minutes wondering where the hell he was. Then, as I peeked through the hole into the other room, I saw someone pushing a wheelchair towards the wall. Oh no! It was old Mr. Lumley. I was about to get up and leave when I heard the Men’s Room door open. Shit, shit, shit! What do I do?! Before you know it, there was a shriveled pee-pee drooping listlessly in front of me. So after taking a deep breath, I gave it a little kiss. “Ooohhh...” moaned Mr. Lumley from the other side of the wall. I closed my eyes and gave it a lick when he suddenly the thing started dribbling all over my cheek. If only ALL men were this easy to please... I then suddenly heard a commotion from the other room. “Grandpa! Oh no!“ Cried the grandson. Well, it was a hell of a party. A send-off you might say. I even gave the two hundred dollars back to the grandson, as a donation for the funeral expenses.

Thursday, January 15, 2009

My naivety has been the cause of many a great embarrassing situation. And so in educating myself to the finer things in life, I began to take night courses at a local Adult School. Some of the courses offered sounded kind of lame such as Quilt Making 101, Turkish as a Second Language, and So You Want To be a Magician. But there was one that struck a chord; The World Of Music. The introductory class was on Thursday nights and the teacher, Mr. Kirk Chasen was gorgeous. I looked forward to the class although, after about a month, I realized I was no more knowledgeable in melody, harmony or composition that a deaf mute. All I did in class was fantasize about Mr. Chasen banging my brains out on the baby grand. He was about ten years older but there was no wedding ring on his finger so I figured I might have a chance. The Adult School was a part-time gig for Mr. Chasen, who taught music at a local elementary school. In my class he mentioned that he had a passion for collection old instruments, so when I found one at a yard sale, I bought it. “It's ugly. It’s kinda old and rusty.” said my friend, Angela when I showed it to her. “Well, it’s for this guy. This teacher. Kirk Chasen.” I said. “That’s my teacher.” Said Angela’s daughter, Salamay who was in the next room watching cartoons on the television set. The next day, Salamay apparently told Mr. Chasen that her friend’s mom wanted to give him a ‘rusty trombone.’ The following Thursday night, we had a surprise test. I know for a fact I did lousy. Had the test been about how Mr. Chasen and I may have ‘made beautiful music together,’ then I'm sure it would have been a breeze. Also, in thinking about what Angela had said about the trombone, I left it at home and was having second thoughts about giving it to him. I did notice that Mr. Chasen gave me a strange smirk when I handed my test in. The following week, Mr. Chasen asked if I could stick around after class ended so he could have a word with me. Great, I thought. He’s probably going to chastise me about how crummy I did. Instead, he locked the door and dropped his pants. “Go for it Jilly,” he said as he threw a leg up on the desk and stuck his ass in my face. Why does this shit always happen to me? Why? What I did learn in the World Of Music class was that a ‘rusty trombone’ is when someone sticks their tongue in a guy’s ass while simultaneously jerking him off. So without going into details, let’s just say I passed.

Saturday, January 3, 2009

I dated an artist once named Robert who had a very unusual method of applying paint to the canvas. I must admit I don't know too much about art, especially modern art. So when Robert took me to a museum one time on a date and raved about the textures in a Kandinsky work or how lush a Marc Roth painting vibrated, I merely nodded and flashed a simple smile. Crap. A bunch of smudges were all I saw. Anyhoo, I kept asking Robert to show me some of his work and each time he’d reply; ‘Soon Jilly. All in good time.” I was beginning to think he was embarrassed or perhaps he wasn’t really an artist after all. That is until he asked me to pose for him in his studio. Nude? Yes, he responded. We had gone out on three dates and Robert still hadn’t made a move on me. Sure we kissed and all, and he felt me up but every time I went for his crotch he’d pulled away. “Not tonight” or apologetically, “I have a lot on my mind” he’d say. Well, I figured he planned on seducing me in his studio as I stretched out in the raw and he eyeballed my shaved love muffin. This could be fun and quite romantic I remember thinking. When I got to his studio and saw some of his work, I was enthralled. Exquisite details and delicate brush strokes capitalized each canvas. I was very impressed and also very turned on by seeing Robert in his white smock and little black beret. He handed me a maroon linen shawl and told me I could disrobe in the bathroom. There was a white alabaster pedestal he wanted me to lean upon. The sunlight through the window warmed my skin and Robert stepped behind his easel to begin. I couldn't see him work, but imagined his cock straining against his smock as he painted my motionless form. I kept waiting for him to move towards me overpowered by lust. After about an hour, he told me I could take a break. This is it! Surely, his libido had skyrocketed and he was ready to fuck my brains out right there on the pedestal. I waited for a moment thinking he'd approach but he didn't. So once again, making the first move, I asked to see how the painting was coming along. He stammered out a few 'ums' then mustering up a somewhat coherent phrase blurting out; "Jilly, hold on". But it was too late. I came around the easel and noticed there was blood all over his crotch. Well, I thought it was blood at first. It was actually maroon paint. He was painting with his penis! It was the smallest thing I’d ever seen; thin as a toothbrush and about half the size. No longer than four-inches with the head tapering off into a point like a blunt pencil. I gasped as Robert quickly covered himself with his smock. "Are you painting me with your dick?" I asked in utter mortification. Angrily, his face grew as red as the maroon shawl I had left behind on the pedestal. Then, as he dipped his dick into a jar of turpentine, he winched and said quite haughtily; “This is how I paint and I use my balls for shading” Robert adjusted his beret and added; “It’s a masterpiece... is it not?’ Well, we broke up soon afterwards. If only his brush was as big as his ego, I may have learned a thing or two about fine art.

One time I ruined a little girl's birthday party and accidentally set Scooby Doo's tail on fire. My good friend, Angela was throwing a birthday party for her daughter Salamay, who was turning 9-years-old on the same day I had my friend, Donna’s bachelorette party to attend. Both friends asked me to help out with preparations, which I did so obligingly. My responsibility was to order a male stripper for Donna and a costumed character for Salamay. Angela told me Salamay loved Scooby Doo. No problem. I triple checked to make sure I gave the correct addresses so the beefy fireman wouldn’t surprise a group of preteens and Donna wouldn’t have to be fondled by a man in a dog outfit. Everything was in order. Both parties were on a Saturday, and I had gone out the night before self-assured that I had done my job. I woke up with a bit of a hangover to Angela’s phone call making sure everything was in order. “And you picked up the cake too Jilly?” Angela asked me. “Yes. Don’t worry” I told her. In fact, I had picked up two cakes. The chocolate cakes were however, very different. The one I picked up for the bachelorette party came from an erotic bakery. Needless to say, I grabbed the wrong box out of my refrigerator and trotted off to Salamay’s party. I was right on time as was Scooby Doo. My plan was to stay for a few hours, run home shower and put on something slinky before heading to the bachelorette party. Anyway, to make a long story short, I was holding one of those long lighters that you’d use to light a barbeque grill when Scooby Doo led Salamay and her friends into the kitchen in a Conga line. Angela was scrambling around trying to remember where she’d put the birthday candles when Salamay stopped in her tracks and opened the cake box on the kitchen table. She screamed in horror. “What the fuck!” Said Scooby Doo. Staring Salamay in the face was an enormous chocolate penis. I ran over, my mouth agape and stood there dumbfounded. Then Scooby Doo yelled out “Ah, you crazy bitch! You just set my tail on fire!” I hadn’t realized the flame of the lighter was exposed. Scooby Doo ran over to the sink to douse himself when all of the little girls began to cry. I left early embarrassed, once again, and was so distraught that I didn’t even go to the bachelorette party. Instead, I hired a bike messenger to stop by my apartment to pick up the cake for Donna’s party. I knew it was a chocolate cake shaped like Scooby Doo but I really didn’t care at this point. Well, I don’t know what happened along the way... maybe the bike messenger went over a curb too hard or fell or something, but I got a call from Donna the next day asking me what happened? Sorry, I told her, I wasn’t feeling very good. So how did everything go? I asked. “Good” she told me “except that was the strangest shaped chocolate penis cake I’d every seen.”

I was so horny before I got to work today that I diddled my fammajamma on the back of a bus. Usually, I drive to work but some asswipe rear-ended my Volvo last week and it's in the shop, as they say. There's probably some fat, greasy mechanic rifling through my glove-compartment at this very minute. In fact, I had forgotten to take my birth control pills from out of the car as well as a spare pair of underwear that I keep in a plastic bag tucked under the seat. You never know when they may come in handy girls! It's not that I often crap myself or bleed like a skewered pig but I like to be prepared in any event. Nonetheless, I didn't realize those things were still in the car when I hurried out of the house this morning to catch a bus. I had stayed up pretty late drinking wine and watching an erotic video tape that my friend Nadine had given me. She's such a trip. She always gives me the strangest porn after she's viewed it. And I know she's watched it because it's never at the beginning. It's always somewhere right after a hot scene and it's strange because you get to know what your friends are into if you rewind a bit and see where they left off - or rather where they GOT OFF. Nadine apparently like double penetration from African American midgets. Anyway, I was on the bus and I took a seat towards the rear where nobody was sitting. Then I slid my hand under my skirt and started going at it. Although my eyes fluttered shut for a brief moment or two I made sure to open them every few seconds to see if anyone was watching. The few people including the bus driver were oblivious. There were a few teenagers who got on and sat somewhere in the middle of the bus but they were too consumed with their Ipods and as usual zoning out in their own little world. So I was safe and my finger as well as the seat were pretty moist and I was close to having a Big O secure with the knowledge I was in my own erotic little world. I guess I hadn't noticed the sound of gears shifting or otherwise just assumed it was the normal throes of traffic. Only until afterwards, while thinking about what happened did I presume the muffler noises were coming from a sports car but in fact it was an 18-wheeler. There had been a trucker looking at me for a few blocks now. He was grinding the gears trying to stay parallel with the bus and eyeballing me the whole time. When I saw him I instinctively pulled my hand out from under my skirt and looked away. Slightly embarrassed, I turned back but only enough to catch a glimpse from the corner of my eye. The trucker was smiling. A big smile as though his wife had just given birth to twins or some shit. I nonchalantly took another glance and he waved. Now I was really embarrassed and a more than a bit pissed because I was so close to coming it wasn't even funny. I had to wipe the pussy juice off my finger discretely and as I did so a roaring blast of the air horn went off. The trucker was honking at me trying to get my attention. Shit. I finally turned and faced him when we both stopped at the red light. He had the audacity to mouth the words 'thank you'. Now in all honesty he wasn't too bad looking. Blond hair, about my age maybe a bit older and he did have a dashing smile. He waved again and I, with a smirk, mouthed back 'your welcome'. Then he mouthed back ' don't stop'. At that moment I got incredibly turned on. I thought my libido was lost about a half mile back around Melrose but suddenly I was completely aroused and thought why not. Why not give this lonely trucker, whose probably been on the road for days a little show. So I scooted around in my seat and actually pulled my dress up and my panties down so he could watch me. I had one leg bent up as I maneuvered around to face the window. The fact of the matter was he was only about eight to ten feet away, if that, and he had a clear shot of everything. So we’re rolling down La Cienaga about 20-miles per hour, and here I am masturbating myself for some stranger through the window of a bus, when I suddenly heard the tires screech seconds before I squirted. The trucker's lascivious grim turned to horror and suddenly I lost sight of him. He had slammed on his air-breaks and less than a second later, so did the bus driver. The entire bus lurched forwards and I went rolling down the aisle with my skirt hiked up and my panties pulled down to my knees. Everyone on the bus turned and looked at me. A bicyclist had apparently shot out into traffic and caused the near collision. I was still about a mile away from the Purple Banana Go-Go joint where I work but I got off at the next stop, thoroughly embarrassed. I didn’t see the 18-wheeler pass me nor did I look around to see if anyone noticed the black smudges on my skirt from tumbling down the aisle of the bus. I just kept my head lowered and thought about how I could have used those spare pair of panties in the shop.